An Empty Verse
A Poem About Nothing
I think
I have nothing left to say
As I approach seventy,
My muse has left me
For sixty years
I have written songs and poetry
At a frantic pace
But now,
If I try to force the effort,
I create works that I do not like,
Works that echo what I have already said,
And said much better
Now,
You might suppose,
Given my history,
This is an effect of one of my regular depressive episodes
But I don’t feel depressed
In fact,
I feel a sense of completion,
A satisfaction, with my body of work,
And a sense that it is mostly behind me now
My psychiatrist has encouraged me
To share my work,
To put beauty into the world,
To play my part
I am happy to do so
It means that I curate my existing work
And mute most of the expressions
Of depression and mental anguish
That I have written
They served their purpose
Which was my own therapy
My romance with words,
A gift from my father,
Has grown cold
And now
I find my solace in silence
My favourite Marx brother
Used to be Groucho
with his caustic verbal wit
Now,
It is Harpo
With his beatific face
And his joyous, boundless silence
